


Homecoming

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode Related, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis steps to him, hand touching his shoulder gently, smiling at him, meeting his eye – and wishing he would smile back but knowing that he won’t.  Not yet. (Coda fic for 1x03)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> So this is a fic that takes back aaaaaaaaaaaaaaall the way back at 1x03. It has taken me this long to finally finish it because I ended up sitting on it for a while. Regardless, this is a fic written with the prompt for "Aramis checking the stitching for Porthos, and Porthos being in a mood - when he's usually more teasing and playful with Aramis after their battles, and this is Aramis' attempt to get him to feel better. And when Porthos responds, Aramis indulges a bit more quickly than he would have otherwise." Also with the secondary, much simpler prompt of "teasing".

“I need to check the stitching,” Aramis says a few days after the whole debacle with Bonnaire. He’s cornered Porthos at the garrison, and admittedly Porthos isn’t overly surprised by Aramis’ concern – far too used to it. It’s a well-known and well-worn scenario between the two of them – Porthos is injured in battle, and Aramis is there to stitch him back up again. They have a rapport about it going, really, one that involves Porthos cursing Aramis out far more than Aramis feels he deserves, but it’s part of the tradition now, and something that Aramis comes to expect. Truthfully, part of him covets that reaction from Porthos now – to see him shed away the world-weary sadness of a shattered idealism and instead embrace the fiery, passionate words, violent and desirable. 

Under normal circumstances, Aramis walking to him and cornering him to check the stitching is met with Porthos rolling his eyes, snorting, or teasing Aramis. Today, though, he merely nods and lets Aramis lead him back to his room in the garrison. He shuts the door behind him and leans against it, watching Porthos as he moves to the center of the room, glancing back at him, not smiling as he normally does. It almost seems as if the fight has completely drained from him – and the shadow of doubt that slides down Porthos’ face is both foreign and unsettling. 

It isn’t a surprise that this is his mood – it’s the mood he’s been in for days, and much as Aramis hates to see it, he can’t exactly begrudge Porthos for his feelings. Bonnaire is gone, taken to Spain and the fates left to him. But somehow the victory still rings hollow, if only because where Bonnaire disappears, another man will appear to fill the empty space. And it’s painful, to see him weighed down as if shackled himself. All men are born free, Porthos had said, and Aramis wishes that could be truly the case now – that they should stay free. 

Aramis steps to him, hand touching his shoulder gently, smiling at him, meeting his eye – and wishing he would smile back but knowing that he won’t. Not yet. 

“I can undress myself,” Porthos mutters when Aramis’ fingers fall to the knots of Porthos’ jacket. 

Aramis pauses, and looks up at him. Porthos’ eyes are lowered, hands slack at his side, and he doesn’t move to step back away from him. 

Aramis smiles sympathetically, smoothing his hands over his shoulders, letting his touch linger over the worn leather. “No, I know. Very capable, our Porthos. But… please. Let me?” 

Aramis stands still until Porthos meets his eyes, hands still resting gently on his shoulders. When finally Porthos does meet his eyes, Aramis smiles a little and tilts his head. 

Porthos sighs. “Fine.” 

Aramis nods once, exhaling, and his fingers tremble just a little as he begins, but he works slowly, savoring it, unbuttoning each bit of his jacket slowly, dragging his fingertips across his chest as he moves, stepping to the side and behind Porthos, hands brushing over his shoulders as he peels back the coat, sliding it down over his shoulders, leaving his arms slack at his sides so as not to disrupt his shoulder. He studies Porthos’ profile until Porthos sighs and looks down, neck bowing, and Aramis sees each bump of his spine dancing down his neck and disappearing behind the laced line of his tunic. There are specks of blood just above the fresh wound on his shoulder. 

“Does it hurt?” Aramis asks conversationally, stepping back from him to drape his coat gently over the back of his chair, stepping back to face him, untucking his shirt from his breeches. 

“Not really,” Porthos says, a lie probably, but he’s always liked to downplay his injuries – it isn’t until Aramis gets his hands on him that the extent of his hurt is usually known. Porthos keeps such things very close to his chest, carries his scars on his back in silence. But Aramis knows the lines and valleys of his face, the things he does not say. 

He traces his thumb down over the scar on Porthos’ forehead that slashes across his eye. Porthos closes his eyes at the touch, and Aramis lets his thumb linger, tracing down from forehead to cheek. 

“And… how do you feel?” 

Porthos levels him with a look, and the silence passes between them. 

Aramis touches at his cheek one last time and then steps back, nodding towards the bed. Porthos walks to it silently and stretches out on his stomach, folding his arms under his cheek and staring at the wall as Aramis collects his things and sits down at the edge of the bed, sliding one hand down along his spine – a simple, gentle touch. 

He ducks down closer, examining his stitching over the axe wound. It’s healing better than he suspected, but still has a way to go before Porthos will be back to his usual range of motion. He touches at the area near the wound and feels Porthos stiffen beneath him. Usually in these matters, when Porthos hasn’t been knocked out, his curses come liberally and creatively – many times Aramis has been told that Porthos is going to fuck his face when he’s done with him, or make him put those hands to some actual use, or that he’s going to burn in hell with all his goddamn needles and the angels of mercy will forsake him only when they can return and stitch his fingers back together for him – things that sound violent and angry, but are always with that touch of promise to them that Aramis always enjoys teasing out of him, letting his touches linger and graze and perhaps dig in a little too tightly, if only to get Porthos to call him the Fucking Piece of Shit Seamstress from Hell. 

Today, though, when Aramis touches at the wound, Porthos merely hisses out a sharp breath and says nothing, stiff beneath him. Pained. Aramis knows that it isn’t the extent of the injury, but rather the damage done to a heart, bruised and bleeding. 

Aramis sits back enough to pour a cup of wine and hand it to Porthos. “Drink.”

Porthos takes it obediently and downs the wine, sighing out and setting the cup back down on the floor next to the bed, staring back at the wall as Aramis sets to work. The stitching needs very little repairing, which is just as well, because when the needle pierces the skin, Porthos hisses but says nothing more – no insults, not threats, no breathless, pained laughter. Nothing at all, just the sight of Porthos clenching his eyes shut. 

Aramis works diligently – where usually, perhaps, he would let his hands linger, if only to coax out the long string of insults and ‘threats’. He works in silence, and Porthos is silent – save for the soft sounds of pain he makes occasionally. He doesn’t look at Aramis and the silence hangs heavy between them – and he knows what Porthos is thinking of, because what else could he be thinking of, what else could he be dwelling on? 

When he’s done, he sighs out, closing his eyes and ducking his head, pressing his lips to the curve of the new scar, lingering there. He feels Porthos shift below him, feels the way the tension eases from his shoulders for half a moment. 

“If I could,” he says, quietly, lips brushing across the stitches, “I would destroy them all – every last one of them, if it meant you could smile.” 

Porthos heaves a long sigh, and Aramis feels the way he sinks down beneath him, as if sinking into the mattress, as if sinking away from Aramis’ hands. Aramis aches to reach out to him properly. He sighs out, too, and shifts, pressing his forehead to his spine, breathing against the back of his neck. 

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Porthos says, quiet and uncertain.

Aramis smiles, and kisses one bump of his spine. “No.” 

“I don’t need you to pity me, either,” Porthos says, voice quiet and far away – hesitant when usually there is so much life and confidence.

And Aramis shakes his head, lifts his head to kiss the back of his ear, whispering, “Never.” 

Porthos sighs and, with some difficulty and a little assistance from Aramis, rolls onto his back, looking up at him. Aramis smiles gently and sets aside his mending kit, letting his hand splay out across his chest, letting his thumb trace along the scar on his heart. Each scar he remembers vividly, and this one is one of his favorites – not for the injury itself, which caused him so much pain and Aramis so much fear that he would be lost to him, but because of the way it shapes across his chest, just the perfect spot and size for Aramis to touch in moments like these. 

He smiles, warm and sympathetic – but never pitying. And keeps his hand pressed to his chest. 

“I could never pity you,” Aramis says quietly. “You, who is so tough and so smart, so full of life and strength. Anyone who thinks to pity you is a fool who knows nothing of you.” 

Porthos nods absently, as if only half-hearing.

“We could talk about it, if you’d like,” Aramis says quietly. 

“Don’t really want to,” Porthos admits. He shakes his head. “Not right now. That man – I actually _thought_ of going with him. How could he suggest such a thing to me, as if I wouldn’t care. As if I wouldn’t—”

He chokes off and Aramis touches his face gently, soothing, whispering out soft, comforting words – but unsure what else to say, beyond that. They’d made sure that Porthos would get his justice from Bonnaire. But in the end, he knows that for Porthos, justice still eludes him, so long as those ships exist, out on the wide ocean. Aramis presses his hand to his heart again. 

Porthos sighs, and closes his eyes, sinking down beneath his hand. Aramis chases him, leaning down to kiss him lightly, experimentally, waiting to see what he’ll do. Porthos kisses him back, slow and gentle – as if uncertain. 

And then Porthos reaches out and touches his side, slides his fingers down, tugging a little to untuck Aramis’ shirt. Aramis smiles gently as Porthos slides a hand up underneath his shirt, touches over his stomach, traces along his ribs – as if he does not know how he feels, as if reacquainting himself. 

But when his hands reach to tug at his suspenders and work at the laces of his breeches, he gently shakes his head, resting his hands over Porthos’.

“No, no, my friend,” he says gently. “Your turn.”

“What?” Porthos mutters, staring at the way Aramis catches his hands and stops him from going further. He’s about to say more but Aramis silences him with an open-mouthed kiss, mouthing at Porthos’ lips until Porthos sighs and stills, and allows Aramis to undo the laces of his breeches, one hand brushing up over his stomach and chest. 

Porthos doesn’t protest, as he normally would, as Aramis teases kisses from him, slow and gentle, kissing him until he feels Porthos relax, breathing slow and steady rather than heightened and impatient. He draws back from the kiss with a gentle smile, hand lifting to brush at his hair, kisses the scar across his eye and works down, kissing each scar on his shoulder, his bicep, his ribs, his hip. 

He shifts away, down onto his knees, and draws Porthos with him until he is sitting up on the edge of the bed, knees splayed open enough to let Aramis settle comfortably between his thighs, hands brushing down over his hips and up over his waist. 

“Tell me, love,” Aramis whispers, kissing his stomach and glancing up at him, smiling. “Would I suck off a man I pitied?” 

“You?” Porthos asks, and there’s the barest hint of amusement in his voice. “Hard to say.” 

Aramis tuts and nips gently at his hip. He brushes gentle kisses over his hip, down across his thigh, and back up again, tracing over his stomach and chest, working over his shoulder and the base of his neck, listening to the way Porthos’ breathing sighs out in gentle waves, and when he pulls back, his eyes are closed and he looks relaxed for the first time in days. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” Aramis teases, whispering the words against his lips before he leans in and kisses him gently. “I’ll be offended.” 

And Porthos actually laughs, hand tangling in his hair and staying like that. 

“If it’s boring you,” Aramis hums out, pressing a kiss to his belly button and smiling up at him, encouraged by that small laugh – quiet though it is. “You can give me pointers.”

“Pointers, huh? I’m sure you need them,” Porthos says, and there’s almost laughter in his voice there, too. 

“I am nothing if not a willing student,” Aramis says, and touches a hand to his heart. And then fiddles with his laces, and tugs his breeches down the rest of the way, movements purposefully slow. He unlaces Porthos’ boots and draws them off one by one, letting his hands squeeze gently around his ankle and up over his calf, touching over him, kneading into sore muscles. 

Porthos watches him, expression soft if not still uncertain. He shakes his head a little when Aramis starts playing with the hem of his breeches. 

“You don’t have to,” he says quietly, and for half a moment his eyes are haunted, looking down at Aramis, kneeled between his legs, on his knees, looking up at him with only patience and love. 

Aramis shakes his head, slides his hands over his hips and leans up, catching his mouth in a soft kiss, nibbling at his bottom lip until he can coax him into kissing him back. And he focuses on that for a long moment, delighting in the way Porthos tugs on his hair a little, after a moment, even if it’s only to draw him back. 

“I do this willingly, Porthos,” Aramis whispers, and kisses the corner of his mouth, then slides kisses along the line of his jaw, nibbles at his earlobe and sucks the earring into his mouth just because he can. His breath his warm against his ear when he whispers. “Let me do this for you.” 

Porthos is quiet for a long moment, long enough that Aramis almost doubts that he’ll let him continue, that Porthos will draw back away from him and back into himself. 

Instead, Porthos sighs out, and turns his head, nuzzling against Aramis’ jaw. 

“… If you want,” he says quietly. “Only if you want.”

“Oh, I want,” Aramis says with a laugh. He smiles against the curve of Porthos’ jaw, pressing his forehead briefly to his temple, kissing over his cheek. “Porthos. I absolutely want you.” 

Porthos snorts out – not quite self-deprecating, but something close to it, and he lowers his eyes. Aramis strokes his hand over his chest, resting it above his heart and shifting so he can press his forehead to his. 

“Let me,” he whispers. “Please?” 

“I’m not about to stop you,” Porthos says quietly, his eyes shut and his voice light – deceptively light, still uncertain. 

Aramis smiles, regardless, stroking his hands over him in an attempt to soothe, and finishes tugging off his boots and his breeches down the rest of the way, folding them carefully before thinking better of it and tossing them blindly towards the chair behind him. Porthos laughs, and it touches his eyes. Aramis smiles back, and slowly unties his braies, drawing them down over his hips, tutting a little when Porthos doesn’t immediately lift his hips to assist him. 

His cock is half-hard and Aramis reaches out, stroking him to fullness, feeling the cock grow heavy in his hand and listening to the way Porthos’ breath hitches. He draws down the braies the same as he did the breeches, and tosses them aside, running his hands up slowly over his legs. He takes his time, kneading gently and working his way up slowly over his legs, feeling the muscles constrict and relax in turn. 

“Aramis.” 

The name is spoken softly, almost like a prayer, and Aramis looks up obediently, meeting Porthos’ eyes. He pets Aramis’ hair in jittery, short strokes, and he just looks at him for a moment – and Aramis memorizes the slope of his frown, small and thoughtful, and oddly endearing. 

“Yes?” Aramis breathes out, brushing a kiss over his thigh, looking up at him still, and guiding his cock to his lips with a slow stroke of his fingers, looking up at him still when he licks along the underside of his cock, swirling his tongue along the gentle ridge of his cockhead. 

Porthos seems to have forgotten he wanted to speak, because his breath hitches and he shakes his head, petting through Aramis’ hair. Aramis hums out and shakes his head, drawing back and kissing over his stomach, stroking his hands over his hips when they shudder up towards him. 

“Tell me,” he breathes. 

“You’re teasing me,” Porthos moans – and this time it’s mostly from frustration that he does, tugging hard on Aramis’ hair. 

“Am I?” Aramis asks innocently, and smiles as he drops back down, kissing and licking over the base of his cock, and delighting in the soft, strangled sound Porthos makes. He licks his lips, letting his tongue nudge against Porthos’ cock just to hear him hiss his breath. “Like this? This is teasing?” 

“Yes, you fucker,” Porthos moans out, but the insult lacks bite. 

“So rude, now I’m really offended,” Aramis laughs, and brushes a kiss against the cockhead, blinking up innocently at Porthos. Porthos growls at him, which only makes Aramis laugh, loving to coax these reactions out of him – far more relieved to hear the reactions in the first place. “In fact, I think – mmm.” 

Whatever he’s about to say is cut off when Porthos cups the back of his head and forces him in, mouth sliding down over Porthos’ cock easily with a quick little thrust. He hums softly around the cock, pleased. 

“Here’s a pointer for you: less talking,” Porthos whispers. “Move your tongue.” 

“Brilliant suggestion,” Aramis replies. Or, more accurately, mumbles around Porthos’ cock. He shivers but does as he’s told, though, running the underside of his tongue against his cock, easing it into his mouth, sealing his lips tightly around the cockhead and suckling. 

He sucks warm and tight around the cock, sliding his lips and tongue over him, swallowing around him and drawing him in deeper, loving the taste of him, the salt and familiar of it all, hard but so soft against his tongue, firm as it pushes towards the back of his throat. He hums out happily, curling his tongue lazily around the tip when he draws back, looking up at Porthos, studying his reaction carefully. 

“Anything else you’d recommend, my friend?” Aramis breathes when he draws back fully, stroking his hand firmly over his cock, slicked now from his mouth. He looks up at Porthos, who’s biting hard at his bottom lip to stay quiet. 

“Don’t stop?” he asks, and his hands are jittery still in his hair when he whispers, more commanding, “Definitely don’t stop.” 

Aramis grins up at him wickedly, fisting around his cock and slowly stroking him, watching the way Porthos starts to breathe harder, push his hips up into every slow, wet stroke, teased out for more reactions that only make him groan. 

“I don’t know. Maybe I will stop,” Aramis says thoughtfully as he strokes him, leaning down to lick at the tip gently, teasing. 

“Fuck,” Porthos says and it’s almost a sob as well as a prayer, a command as well as absolution. “ _Aramis._ ” 

And the words stutter out of him and Porthos stills for a moment – and he clenches his eyes tight for a moment, his entire body tensing right before his eyes. Aramis blinks in confusion and looks up at Porthos to meet his eyes – and there is a touch of fear there. He’s strayed too close to begging. And there’s a touch of wildness to his eyes that Aramis immediately does not like, and he nods his head, stroking him gently, his other hand touching his hip. 

“I will. It’s alright, my dear friend.” He ducks his head, licks at his cock and pillows his lips over him – his touch apologetic, begging himself now – for forgiveness. “It’s alright, my dear. Forgive me.” 

He reaches to cup his hips, fingers digging tightly. He presses down against him, swallows around him and draws him in deep, giving it hard enough that his eyes water and his throat starts to burn, but he doesn’t let up, bobbing his head slightly and waiting until Porthos’ hand tangles hard in his hair and tugs – that’s the part he loves. He’s trembling and he can feel that Porthos is just managing to hold back shudders. He reaches down shakily, fiddling with his suspenders enough to yank his own breeches down enough to cup himself, stroking quickly as he swallows around him. 

“Fuck,” Porthos cries out, shakily, arching up and yanking hard on Aramis’ hair. “Fuck—I’m going to. I’m going to fuck you so hard once I’m healed.” 

Aramis moans, loudly, at that – and there are no words to describe how happy he feels to hear those ‘threats’ again. He hums around his cock, all teasing gone now as he moves with purpose, stroking his hand in time with his mouth, suckling around him enough that it only takes a few more moments before Porthos is coming with a sharp gasp of his name, rocking up hard into his mouth. 

He stays like that, milking his lips around him, drinking him down, holding him firmly at the base as he sucks and licks around him, curling his tongue sloppily around the cockhead. He strokes himself off like that, moaning around his cock, his breath hitching as Porthos yanks hard on his hair – the way he loves it. 

When he’s finished, feeling as if he could gasp and swallow around him for the rest of the night happily, he crawls up into Porthos’ lap, sweaty and sated, and Porthos cleans his mouth and chin with lazy, lapping kisses. Aramis smiles gently and lets Porthos suck at his lips gently, returning the small kisses with pleased, purring gasps of his name, arching when Porthos strokes his back with his fingertips, hard enough that, were he not clothed still, there would be sharp pink lines running down his back – just the way he loves it, too. 

“How do you feel?” Aramis whispers when he draws back from the kiss. Porthos curls his arms around his waist, keeping him there straddling his lap. Porthos grunts once and Aramis drops his head down, kissing over his shoulder, peering down his back to survey any damage possibly done to his shoulder wound. Finding none, he sighs out, and nuzzles into his neck. “Porthos?” 

“Better,” Porthos finally says, and presses his cheek to Aramis’, sighing out against his ear and nibbling on the velvet-soft skin, sucking thoughtfully. Aramis feels more than sees him snake his hand into Aramis’ breeches, and can’t help but laugh when Porthos makes a rather endearingly bewildered sound. 

“I’m afraid I was a step ahead of you,” he says. He strokes his hands over his arms. “It’s just as well. I don’t want you to disturb your wounds.” 

“I’m not an invalid,” Porthos mutters, and rolls his eyes. 

Aramis shakes his head, drawing back enough to trace over the scar on his face. “No. I know that.” He smiles, sliding a hand into his hair and stroking through it lightly. “Porthos… I don’t mind doing this for you. I don’t do so just so you’ll return the favor.”

Porthos closes his eyes and breathes out. “… I know. I just—”

“I know.” He smiles, gentle. “I have no doubt that you are capable. I know first hand – so to speak – of how strong and capable you are. So many would call you a brute,” he says quietly, stroking his hands over his jaw and down his neck, and back up again. “But that’s because they’re fools. How gentle you can be, Porthos. Purposeful and precise. Kind and forthcoming. Just and attentive.” Aramis kisses him, stroking his thumbs over his cheeks. “You are wonderful to me.” 

He isn’t sure if it’s the right thing to say, since Porthos doesn’t immediately answer – and Aramis _knows._ Knows how badly Porthos wants to just be a man, not a degradation and not some kind of ideal, either. To Aramis, he could never be either – to Aramis, he is wonderful, complex, and simply _Porthos._ He smiles at him warmly, stroking his fingers into his hair and down over his cheeks and jaw. 

Porthos sighs. “You too. To me, I mean.” 

“I know,” Aramis says, and smiles wickedly, leaning into tease a warm kiss from his mouth. “I’m _fantastic._ ” 

And Porthos laughs, loud and bright and _perfect_. And finally, finally the ghosts that haunt his eyes seem to melt away when he beams at him. Aramis can’t help but answer him with his own smile, his chest constricting as he looks at him and knows that, despite everything, he will be alright.


End file.
